


In Which Crowley Is Saved On a Technicality And No Extra Taxes Are Owed

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's turn to do the rescuing, Fluff, Gen, complete lack of historical accuracy or research so sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: I'm still working away on the main story of "Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves," but in the meantime, here's a small prologue snippet. It's based off of a Tumbler post where someone (and I apologize that I can't find the post again, to cite usernames) said that Neil Gaiman said Aziraphale had also saved Crowley from bad situations in the past (not just the other way around) and someone else commented that was good because otherwise Crowley probably would have been burned at the stake for being a witch at least once.Going from there, have a witch!Crowley rescue, set in an indeterminately "medieval" time somewhere in England. Think Monty Python's Holy Grail and you've got it (though minus the ducks, much as I would have liked to work one in).Pre-relationship, so tagged as gen, even though the series overall is Aziraphale/Crowley.
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82





	In Which Crowley Is Saved On a Technicality And No Extra Taxes Are Owed

_I think I might actually be buggered this time,_ Crowley thought, watching the approaching torches. She was tied to a post taller than herself on the outskirts of the village (couldn’t risk catching the houses in town on fire), kindling heaped around her, and a drench of foul-smelling oil overall.

The ropes holding her to the post were tightly knotted; no wiggle room for even a serpentine demon to work with. Worst of all, around her neck was an actual holy cross, placed there to bind her magic - and it was working. It might look like a simple bit of shaped wood on a hemp cord, but had been blessed by the local priest who had some rare, genuine power in him. It burned against her chest like a hot coal, even through her clothes, a preview of what was to come.

Because, with a holy object hindering her, Crowley couldn’t do anything occult. No miracle-ing herself out of this, no rendering the flames harmless, no convincing her human body that it wouldn’t burn. Just actual burning, until her body failed and Crowley was released.

Crowley’d been through worse, but not by much, and she was not looking forward to it.

There was shouting (“Witch!”) and praying and whatnot going on, as the crowd worked itself up for the execution, but Crowley wasn’t listening as she tried to find some way, any way, to get free.

Then, out of nowhere, a clear, loud, and unexpectedly familiar voice cut through the air.

“Excuse me,” it said, “have you got a permit?”

The clamor of the crowd died down, and everyone turned to look at the newcomer – a prim figure in expensive, immaculate clothing, with an air of great officiousness surrounding him.

“A what?” one of the villagers asked.

Aziraphale (because it was, beyond any doubt, Aziraphale) sighed deeply and looked Heavenward for patience. Then, “A _permit_. Since the beginning of this year, all witch burnings require a properly signed official permit.”

“Says who?”

“Says the _King_ , of course,” Aziraphale said, in the weary tone of someone addressing his obvious mental inferiors.

 _Don’t overdo it, mate,_ Crowley thought, _or there’ll be two of us on this stake._ But it seemed to be working – at least, the torches had stopped approaching the pyre.

“We ain’t heard of no permit, and we caught this witch fair’n’square and we’re burnin’ her,” the villager declared, to the cheers of his compatriots, who started up a chant of “Burn the witch!” for good measure.

“Very well,” Aziraphale told them, raising his voice, “but there is a fine.”

The stopped everyone cold.

“A fine? How much?”

Aziraphale told them, and you could see the mob’s enthusiasm ratchet down a few notches.

“We ain’t got that kind of money!”

“Well, if you aren’t able to pay up front, then the King will simply raise your taxes to make up for it, until the debt is paid in full.”

The magic word “taxes” was as good as throwing a bucket of water on the scene. A few people on the far side of the mob began to edge away.

Aziraphale, still sounding bored and supercilious continued, “ _Or_ you could release the witch into my custody, and I’ll have her transported off site and burned at an, er, officially sanctioned government witch-burning facility, at no charge to yourselves.”

Almost before Crowley knew what was happening, she’d been untied from the post and shoved bodily in Aziraphale’s direction. _Oh my Satan, it’s actually working . . ._ She managed, barely, to keep the delight off her face. It helped that she was stumbling for balance, since her arms were still tied behind her back.

Aziraphale had brought a horse, it turned out, tethered a short distance away, and Crowley was slung unceremoniously across the saddle. It was uncomfortable, but far less so than burning alive, so she wasn’t complaining. At least it meant the cross was hanging down and away from her body, where it couldn’t cause pain.

“All right, then,” Aziraphale told the villagers who’d helped get Crowley onto the horse. “Thank you for your cooperation, and I’ll handle things from here. Er, you’ve all done very well.” He gave them a bland, official little smile and wave, and began leading the horse (and Crowley) away down the road.

When they were far enough away, Crowley whisper-hissed, “Can you speed it up a little? Some of them may be having second thoughts.”

“We can’t look like we’re running,” Aziraphale whispered back, “or they’ll know they’ve been had.” He did, however pick up his pace.

They turned a corner, and put a tree-covered hill between them and the village. Safely out of sight, Aziraphale waved Crowley’s ropes out of existence and quickly helped her sit upright. “Here, I’ll take that,” he said, tugging at the hemp cord of the cross around Crowley’s neck; Crowley leaned forward so he could lift it away (one of the problems with a holy object was, once it was in place, a demon couldn’t remove it; Aziraphale, being an angel, had no such restriction).

Crowley nearly groaned in relief. Aziraphale crumpled the cord and cross into a ball and tossed it in the air, where it combusted in a tiny flash of light. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“We’re supposed to be tightening up on the actual quantity of holy relics lying around,” Aziraphale told him, soothing the horse as he spoke (the horse, not a fan of having a demon there to begin with, had decidedly not liked a flash of fire in addition). “There was a terrible market for knock-offs a while back, and Heaven wants to protect their brand. I think I’d better be in front.”

Crowley rearranged herself so Aziraphale could swing up, all too happy to have someone else handling horse management.

Aziraphale clucked and nudged the horse, and it started walking forward; the angel nudged it again into a trot, as Crowley grabbed onto him for balance. “Anyone following?”

Crowley glanced back over her shoulder. “Nobody yet.”

“It might be best if you changed appearance – they’ll be looking for a man and a woman, not two men.” Shifting the reins to one hand, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and was suddenly dressed more like a random farmer than a government lackey.

“Good point.” Another finger-snap, and Crowley, now also looking like a male farmer, tried to figure out what to do with his hand. His other hand was gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder, but the horse was bouncing along at a trot, which made things entirely unstable.

“You can put your arms around me,” Aziraphale said, obviously sensing the instability of Crowley’s seat.

Somewhat gingerly, Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, and concentrated on trying to move with the horse as best he could, lacking stirrups. It was awkward, but workable.

After he was as settled as he was going to get, he said, “A _permit_ , really?”

“Well, I didn’t have a lot of time to think out a plan. It was the best I could come up with. Besides, it worked.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Crowley said, grinning, “but it did.”

“How did you end up in that predicament, if I may ask?”

Crowley sighed. “Stirring up trouble, as always. Except _that_ bit went fine. I was selling curses and counter-curses and love potions that didn’t actually work, getting everyone’s worst impulses coming out, all the usual – but then . . .” he cut off.

“Then?” Aziraphale prompted. He let the horse slow to a walk.

“There was a woman,” Crowley said, suddenly sober. “With a sick baby. And I . . . helped. And somehow _that_ was the sign of Satanic witchery that set everyone after me.”

Aziraphale was silent a moment. “I didn’t think your side held with that sort of thing.”

He was right, but Crowley shrugged (Azriaphale would feel it) and said, “Well, a baby’s no use to our side, not till it grows up and can start making choices, start doing the wrong thing – you know. I figured I was giving our side a chance later.”

Aziraphale was silent again, then: “I see. Very logical.”

There was just enough warmth in his voice to make Crowley flush, glad Aziraphale was facing the other way.

Fortunately, Aziraphale was willing to let it rest. “I rented this horse at the second village over,” he said, in a brisker voice. “There’s a decent public house – we could have some ale before we, um, part ways?”

“I’m buying,” Crowley said, the closest he felt he could get to saying _thank you_ to a sworn enemy.

“The first round,” Aziraphale told him. “I’ll buy the next.”

“Deal.”


End file.
